


Deflowering a Doctor: Or, Lord of the Manor & Noblesse Oblige

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, First Time Bottoming, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson wishes to try something new and Holmes is happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deflowering a Doctor: Or, Lord of the Manor & Noblesse Oblige

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Лишение девственности доктора: Господин & положение обязывает](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582875) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



It was a beautiful sight: John Watson on his hands and knees before me. In all our years as cohabitants and lovers we have enjoyed each other’s bodies in nearly every conceivable fashion in nearly every place imaginable—including a rather ill-advised, but deliciously thrilling rendezvous in the lavatory of St. James’s Hall during the interval of a particularly stirring recital of Scriabin—yet the events planned for that evening marked a first, at least for one of us.

It all began most unexpectedly on my part; Watson had been away since breakfast to attend to patients, while I was putting the finishing touches on my latest monograph concerning the chemical singularities of poisons derived from differing species of _Atropa_. He returned much later than usual, having been detained by Mrs. Phelps, who was always anxious to know, in extreme detail, in spite of her lack of medical training and poor hearing, the nature of any ailment that befell her, serious or otherwise. It was well past eight when my long-suffering companion finally returned home, declared he had already eaten, and practically seized me from my desk to ply me with desperate kisses.

“My—What’s gotten into you?” I pried myself free enough to ask, though I did not disapprove.

“Upstairs,” he rumbled, face far too close to mine for the sitting room door to be so wide open.

I grinned—I can’t help but grin whenever he gives me orders—and made as if I was adjusting his tie. “I’ve another hour or two’s work to attend to.”

“Holmes,” he began, discarding accessories all the while: hat flew to the settee, bag dropped at our feet, a shucked overcoat dropped on my chair, “I have been thinking about something. I have been thinking about it all day, all damned day. I have been thinking about it while trying to explain gout to Mrs. Phelps for forty blasted minutes. I have been thinking about it all the way home, and I am quite sure if I don’t have you inside me shortly, I might just give myself an aneurism imagining it.”

I can hardly fathom the look on my face upon hearing that, for in the moment I was quite stunned. Only the week before had he, amidst some bawdy, post-coital chatter, confessed his ignorance of, shall we say, the _receiving_ end of sodomy, in a tone so blasé that I had interpreted his professed curiosity as merely a courtesy to me, who was just then extolling the pleasures of a firm prick in my arse. Now was my deduction proven splendidly wrong. Here was John Watson jumping me in the sitting room and demanding I bugger him. Blood buzzed in my ears and I vaguely recall stammering something about being happy to oblige.

He pushed me along to the hall and fairly chased me up the stairs to his room. As soon as the door closed behind us, we fell upon each other in a whirlwind of hungry kisses, cast-off clothing, and whispered demands. This was how I came to find myself in his bed, gazing ardently at him denuded, on hands and knees, expectant.

"Are you comfortable?" asked I.

"Comfortable," he confirmed, his voice tight with anticipation and nerves. 

"This won't be too hard on your shoulder?"

John shook his head, but his hands moved from the headboard to the mattress. A more stable angle--I thought it a wise adjustment. "You make me sound like an old man."

"I am merely concerned for the wellbeing of our veterans."

"Oh God, just get on with it."

"'Just get on with it,'" I teased and ran my fingers along his back, across his backside, down the backs of his thighs, "the motto of great English lovemaking if ever I heard one."

That earned a chuckle. 

“I’ll have you know, my dear doctor, that I fully intend to take my time in this endeavor. It is rare that I stumble across something carnal you _haven’t_ done and first impressions count for so much.” My hands continued their wanderings as I spoke, coming to rest on his hips. I drew myself closer to consider the alignment and was pleased to find from knee to hip we were precisely as excellently proportioned for the task at hand as we were for the other way ‘round. As I pressed my hips against his backside experimentally, I felt a hot tongue of lust flicker in the pit of my stomach and I listened as John’s breath caught. I repeated the gesture: the hands on his hips pulled him back against mine in a sharp, decisive thump; my rising cockstand slid along the curve of his buttocks. 

“Besides,” I continued, trying to mask the want in my voice, “I am a rather out of practice at this end of things; it may take me a while to remember how it goes.” 

Another mock thrust. This one made him grunt in that wonderfully animalistic way of his that makes my cock twitch with longing. He swallowed thickly and turned his head to give me half a glare over his shoulder. 

“You seem to have the general idea.”

I leaned along his back and pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. “I have been observing an expert,” I whispered with the utmost reverence. 

John merely shook his head at my histrionics, but with his next breath I felt his tension subside, confirming my jocular ramblings had done their duty. From the curve of his hips down his flanks, my hands skated on fingertip, tracing invisible mandalas as they worked their way ‘round to his front. I steadied myself with one hand while the other circled the base of his shaft in lazy, heavy touches. Slowly, slowly—this evening hinged on anticipation, on longing. When I finally gripped him, his prick was firm and hot. A throaty rumble signaled his approval as I began to work my hand along his length.

I was still draped over him, my whole front resting against his back, and when I closed my eyes I felt briefly I was pulling myself off instead of him. No, not instead of— _through_ him. Each motion of my hand on his prick sent a phantom flare of pleasure through me, fainter but curious. I began to stroke him as if he were myself, indulging in idiosyncratic rhythms and patterns of touch that were difficult to replicate on another man’s cock. The angle was nearly identical, ignoring the extra set of hips, and I could hardly resist the urge. Strange to find opportunity to test the objective value of one’s masturbatory techniques. I was just getting to the manipulations of the head when his hand suddenly caught my wrist.

“Not yet—God, not yet.” 

His voice recalled me from my experimental mindset. His breathing had grown ragged, a layer of sweat forming between our bodies. As my thumb brushed over his cock-head I felt the slick drippings of pre-ejaculate. My curiosity had very nearly finished the evening before we’d started. I pulled back, withdrawing my hand from his cock with a lingering caress. Our skin slid from each other’s with a thick, wet sound and I sat back on my knees.

“I just had a very interesting idea,” I uttered by way of excuse.

He settled down on his forearms and took a deep, bellowing breath. “Good idea,” he agreed at last, “But tonight, I want you to fuck me.”

Those words ran through me like a shot. Before I had been excited by the novelty of the enterprise, but to hear him speak his desire with such a delicious crudeness threw a switch in my mind. Some visceral, amative part of me seemed to awaken, and I badly wanted to rut him straight through the mattress. But no, no—slowly. Slowly.

Remembering my mislaid plan, I stooped to kiss first one buttock, then the other. With one in each palm, I spread him before me. My God, he is beautiful, down to the very last inch. I kissed him slowly across his arse from one hand to another before pressing my tongue broadly against his hole in a measured, idle lick. John’s hips lurched in my hands. I lapped at him, eager as a boy with a lolly, while he spat sublime profanities into his pillow. Just as he began to press back into my attentions, I pulled myself away.

As I was coating my fingers in the jar of waiting ointment, he began to grow tense again. He shifted his weight anxiously, curling and uncurling his toes. I ran my free hand down his back, tracing the familiar route around his hips, down the back of the thigh, back up along the inside, brushing his bollocks, coming to rest 'round the base of his cock. With him so in hand, I rubbed my now-greased finger against his hole until he yielded enough to permit a fingertip.

A bit more lubricant and some patient plying saw my finger swallowed by his arse. Gingerly, I began to work in and out of him, the hand around his cock stroking in complementary sweeps. My own erection pulsed enviously between my legs. Yearning to be inside him, I eased a second finger past the tight ring of muscle. When a careless knuckle brushed against his prostate, John let out a cry I couldn’t parse. I froze.

“Too much?”

I felt his head nod more than I could see it. _Slowly_ , I chided to myself, _slowly_. Resuming my ministrations, I was careful not to finger him too roughly and placed enough discord between the fingers inside him and the hand around his erection to keep him eager but wanting. 

How carelessly I kept forgetting myself, as if bent on spoiling my own fun. I, like my John Watson, am a bifurcated soul between the bedroom and otherwise. Watson—for outside these boudoir-moments he is still Watson—is kind, steadfast, patient. The John with whom I topple into bed is likewise kind, but also churlish, aggressive, and elegantly vulgar. For my part, whereas I am ordinarily singleminded and focused, my carnal self is often reckless and easily distracted. Together, we are an explosive combination: intense, erotic, divine, if somewhat difficult to manage.

By the time I was three fingers deep in him, John seemed convinced of the Gomorrhean enjoyment of the thing. He pushed my hand away from his prick and pressed back gleefully against the fingers gliding slickly into his arse, punctuating his breaths with pleasure-soaked whines. Taking this as my cue, I wasted no time in applying a generous, if rather cold, handful of petroleum jelly to my eager cock. The anticipation had not been lost on me either; my rod fairly ached to be touched. I withdrew my fingers from him slowly and the sight of his widened hole stood my hair on end.

“You’re lovely,” I murmured, finger tracing the curve of his entrance before easing inside him once more.

John moaned outright and I was thankful for Mrs. Hudson’s selective hearing. I curled my finger against his prostate, purposeful this time, and watched him wriggle. My cock shuddered in my hand. I withdrew my finger. With one hand to hold his hips, I guided myself to his waiting hole and sighed as he engulfed my glans. I pulled myself free only to sink into him again, reveling in the feeling of inauguration. How ambrosially his arse consumed me! I could have done no more than dance across this threshold and come off gloriously from that alone in half a hundred strokes, but John writhed before me, leaning into each thrust until soon the whole of my cockstand was wrapped in the velvet warmth of him.

With both hands on his hips, I tugged him towards me to rest hip-to-hip, thigh-to-thigh, the realization of my earlier gestures. I counted as his muscles made a thousand and one small adjustments as much to keep myself from spending as to appreciate his form. How, I wondered, how in Heaven’s name had no one laid this gorgeous man before now—how was it I was fortunate enough to do so?

“Still comfortable?” I asked, though the evidence before me was sufficient.

His answer was to reach a hand back to my hip and, rocking against me, start to fuck himself with my prick. I followed his lead and soon we found a steady rhythm: easier, gentler than he used with me, but no less effective. Pleasure dripped over me like honey; I watched with hungry eyes how with each thrust I disappeared inside him, listened how his every breath dissolved into quiet moan. 

John brought his hand up and began to stroke himself. I tightened my grip on his hips, gradually building speed and force as we went. The dull smack of skin against skin formed contrapuntal to our arabesque of sighs and moans. It had been years since I had taken this particular position, and our physiques and psyches being what they were, I had feared my gangly self would feel quite ineffective over his stalwart frame. A gazelle trying to run down the leopard for a change. This could not have been further from reality; I felt powerful and immense. I read his flexing muscles and shortening breaths as gospel, keeping myself in time with his pleasure.

As his crisis neared, John’s hand sped and his back arched. Between ragged breaths he commanded me: now _faster_ , now _slower_ , now _harder_ , now _there_ , now _like that, just like that_. Then he reduced first to vulgarities, then to grunts. As he rushed headlong to orgasm, he tightened around me and I abandoned myself to desire. My senses overflowed with him: his look, his whimpers, his warmth, his scent, the taste of his arse still lingering on my tongue. I thrust into him to the hilt and regretted there was no way for him to engulf all of me. I urged harder, wishing secretly with each pulse of my hips that we would smash apart into a thousand million pieces, that our molecules would fly about and reconstitute into a single, perfect being. I came in a shuddering spurt picturing it.

For a moment we were still and silent. I leaned my head against his back, mind swirling. When I slid out of him limply, we both gasped at the sudden loss—two individuals once again. I pressed a kiss on each vertebra, ending at the base of his skull. Drawing back, my fingers traced his spine and down his thighs. He was trembling, I hoped from fatigue. 

”How are you feeling?" 

"Utterly deflowered," he rumbled, "and like I shall be very sore tomorrow." He sounded very pleased at the prospect.

"'What a little slut; you didn't even bleed,' as someone once told me."

He snorted. "God, that's macabre."

“Isn’t it.” The man had been a macabre fellow. 

John shifted uneasily on his knees and free hand. "Could you pass me a… anything--I'm dripping on the sheets."

We made quick work of tidying ourselves up, both of us racing to return to each other's arms. As we settled into the sheets, Watson's limbs fell leadenly over me. Sleep roosted on my eyelids. The torpid haze of spent passion slowed everything into a rose-colored crawl of sweet kisses and affectionate babble.

“You’re biased,” he replied to my calling him beautiful. “Will you sleep here tonight?"

"Of course," answered I, for there was no force on Earth which could make me deny him, "You can hardly expect the lord of the manor to abandon his pretty bride so soon after despoiling her maidenhead."

He laughed and pressed his face into my neck, mustache tickling the soft flesh below my ear. We put out the lamp, kissed our 'good nights', and drifted languidly towards a well-deserved sleep. In the dark, John hugged me close.

"Lord of the manor," he repeated skeptically and chuckled again to emphasize how ridiculous I was. 


End file.
